Summary and Disclaimer: Ezri Dax undergoes a medical exam. DS9, Romance/humour, E/J, G or PG (I don't know my ratings!)

I do not own Star Trek, in any form including Deep Space Nine, although I would really like to own a working commbadge and tricorder. I do not own Julian Bashir or Ezri Dax, or any of the other things mentioned in this story. If you wish to sue, I assume you are the same people who have authority to authorize a DS9 movie, and so I hereby petition you to make one.


"Hold still!" said Dr. Julian Bashir. "This is a delicate medical procedure!"

Ezri Dax squirmed a little bit more on the biobed. "But it tickles!"

"You were the one who suggested this in the first place!"

"Yes, but I didn't think you were going to do it by hand! I thought you were going to use a tricorder," Ezri protested.

"Where would be the fun in that?" said Dr. Bashir. He tapped a few more numbers into his datapadd. "Right side, please."

"This is a complex medical procedure, Julian," Ezri reminded him. "Who said anything about fun?"

"Hmphh." Dr. Bashir sighed in mock irritation. "Are you sure Jadzia never had this done?"

"Positive. I don't think even Tobin had it done, and you know how obsessive he was."

"But I was sure I'd heard her mention it once or twice," said Bashir.

"There's such a thing as speaking figuratively, Julian."

"Ahh. Now turn to your left, please."

A few more pokes and prods (and a few more wiggles from Dax) and the procedure was finished. "You can sit up now," Julian told her, handing her her uniform. "Your results will be ready in a moment."

Ezri grinned up at him and shrugged into her shirt sleeves as he finished his final analysis. "So, what have I got?" she asked once she was dressed.

"Seven hundred twenty-four," Julian replied, in his best Starfleet physician's voice.

"Seven hundred twenty-four?" Ezri repeated. "That's not too bad."

"I think it's a very nice number, myself." Now it was Julian's turn to grin.

"You would, Julian Bashir," she said. She climbed down off the biobed, and wrapped her arm around his waist as they strolled out of the Infirmary.

He looked down at her and kissed her forehead. "Of course I would. But, Ezri Dax," he said, "I still can't believe that in nine lifetimes you'd never had anyone count your spots!"


All medical diagnoses contained herein are my own, as are the mathematical approximations (spots per square inch). Neither is to be taken internally, for I am neither a doctor nor a professor of mathematics (and, besides, I hear those division signs really stick in the throat). I hope you have enjoyed this ficlet!